Human Kintsugi

Flaws. Flaws and Cracks. Cracks lead to weakness and before you know it, it’s all fallen apart. Hold on tightly to precious things. If you let your attention wander, they’ll crash to the floor, broken forever.

She asks me which dress to wear, the black Fred Perry jersey dress or the floral cami dress. I say I don’t mind. She always looks great, but I forget to say it. The National Lottery numbers are just about to be announced, so I rush into the kitchen to grab a pen. When I come back, she’s upstairs. Ten minutes later and we haven’t won. No luck tonight, no hugs. There’s a waft of Izzy Miyake, a kiss on my temple, and she’s gone as I recheck the numbers. I don’t look up, don’t know which dress won.

Cigarette smoke and Mad Dog 2020 is all I can smell in the Ladies toilet. The smoke comes in a plume from the trap closest to the window, the stench of cheap alcohol from the pool of vomit on the scarred, tiled floor. The chorus to ‘Rock and Roll Star’ is being screamed from a dance floor filled with Clarks Wallabee wearing Liam wannabees, arms crossed behind their backs. I stare into my own eyes, hard, willing myself to think straight. I flit from my pupils to the mottled marks in the glass. The single, solid pane has been screwed to the wall since the pub opened in the sixties. The mirror is clear of paint, no decorating has been attempted in here. But I look fine, the dress looks good. I breathe in through three breaths – inhale, exhale - to forget the anger. I walk back into the hall, and he comes straight towards me. We dance and he leans his chin over my shoulder to shout in my ear. He’s noticed my dress and likes it, I knew it was the right choice.

A circle of bodies forms around a lone dancer, tumbling and spinning to a hip hop tune. The wannabees stand, arms still behind their backs. The DJ’s a crowd pleaser, a caterer serving for all tastes. I see him lift one headphone earpiece, nod a ‘yes’ at the query, no doubt a polite dismissal of a request. He knows what his playlist is, he no doubt spent all day working on it. And the dancer whirls and turns until the end of the song, and applause.

A few more drinks and another dance. He suggests a cigarette. We walk together outside. He leans against a wall, I stand on the edge of the pavement, back to the road. The nicotine rush hits me and I sway slightly. He grabs my elbow tightly, then my waist gently. Then kisses me hard.

She’s not come back yet, it’s midnight. Her Nokia only holds a charge for about an hour, she doesn’t answer. It’s the morning when she comes home. We shout until noon, then talk until dusk. Forgiveness gives us golden glue. I forgive her the drunken triste, but will I forget? She forgives me my lapse in concentration, my lack of attention. She forgives me for forgetting she was in my hands, that I needed to care for her, and now we’re better than before.

I’m leaving now, a party with a client. I ask her if she prefers the blue or green tie. She says she doesn’t mind and shows me her cheek for a kiss, her eyes on the TV. I walk out of the house, towards the people at the party, waiting for me. We’re papered over with gold. Gold over the cracks.